


Mirror, Mirror

by landrews



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landrews/pseuds/landrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't like seeing Ben mirrored back at him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: S6
> 
> Written May 2011 for prompt "Time will tell."

 

“Dean,” Sam says, practically hissing. “You are so...” 

“Oh, my God,” the waitress breathes as she sidles up to the table, their breakfast plates in her hands and balanced on her right forearm. 

Gut tightening, Dean stops drumming his spoons on the table, looking up to see the girl staring down at him. Early twenties, average height, athletic, mousy brown hair held off her face with butterfly barrettes. He raises one brow and that jumpstarts her again. 

“I knew I knew you,” she says, keeping her voice low. She sets his side of bacon down in front of him, glancing over at Sam and back again. “Are you still,” she continues as she sets down his eggs and pancakes and Sam's veggie omelet. “...y'know?” 

Dean feels his lips flatten and consciously relaxes his face and kicks back in the booth, even as he shifts his feet flat in readiness of trouble. “Awesome?” he drawls. 

She laughs. “Well, yeah, you were pretty awesome,” she agrees. 

Sam's rolling his eyes while frowning, but Dean can also see he's let his hand drift below the table. Dean keeps his on top and grins back at her. He has no freakin' clue who she might be. 

“But, no, y'know, I thought you were... Are you still a hun... hunter?” 

She says the word like she's never said it before, like it's made of angles and shadows and unpronounceable sounds. 

Dean sits up and finally reaches openly for the gun he has tucked against his side today. 

Squaring up to the table to block them from view, blocking Dean's view of the exits, she actually raises a finger to lips and shushes at him, then pats the air in front of her. “Oh, my god, you are so just like I remember you, except a lot older,” she says, emphasizing 'a lot'. 

Sammy has the audacity to snort and Dean shoots him a glare. 

Barring severe concussion, and digging outta his own grave, Dean hasn't been this confused... his brain stutters to a stop. He tilts his head and holds his own hands up. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“Dean,” Sammy says. 

“Shut up, Sam.” 

“I'm Kathy. Seven years ago? You saved me from this...” Dean can see the gears turning in her head. “Thing. In Michigan? But I needed stitches and then at the hospital there was a scene, my dad...” 

And yeah, Dean remembers. “You were like, twelve.” 

“I was sixteen. And I thought you were, I don't know, eighteen or something, but, you're way old now. At least thirty, right?” 

“Thirty-two,” Sam supplies, the asshole. 

Letting his defenses drop, Dean sighs. Bad hunt, bad save, bad everything. Couldn't drop her and get out before he was being slammed into the concrete of the emergency bay by her Father. Which he understood, but still. Dad had been pissed, had to leave his own hunt high and dry to come clean up. 

“I know what you're after.” 

“What?” Dean says, annoyed now. 

She leans forward at the waist and whispers, “It's the Hollingbrook house, isn't it. Poltergeist.” 

Sam clears his throat and when Dean and Kathy both glance over, Sam gives him that look- the one that says: play along, get the info. 

“It's okay,” Kathy says. “I won't tell. I've never told anyone in all this time.” 

Her father's face had been florid as he shoved his chest into Dean's and held him on his toes with a meaty hand around his throat. Dean had his own hand wrapped around the comforting bulk of the hilt on his hunting knife, but he managed to wait the man out while he snarled, thinking Dean had slashed his daughter and worse. “No.” 

“Try the Historical Society, they're on Rice Street,” she offers, straightening. “That's where I found the most info on the family. I'll bring you more coffee.” She spins away from the table. 

“Wait,” Sam says, but she's swooping up an empty plate nearby, her voice rising as she says something that makes the guy sitting there laugh and then she's gone. 

“Do you think she's hunting?” 

Dean shrugs and picks up a slice of bacon. 

“We can't just...” 

“We can and we will, Sam. I'm not encouraging any rookies.” Not with the Mother out there and Heaven embroiled in civil war. Just. No. The bacon tastes like burnt flesh. Dean swallows anyway, but now he's done. He balls his napkin up and tosses it down. “Let's go.” 

Sam pauses with his first bite of omelet on his fork, halfway to his mouth. “Dean.” 

“Sam.” 

“It's a multiple salt and burn. We can use the help. And she'll be safer if she...” 

Kathy comes back as promised, a full pot of coffee in her hand. And all Dean can see is Ben. Ben, in ten years, standing in front of him with a hunt he's found. 

Sam stares at him, and Dean knows he's thinking of Adam, their own brother, who is far from safe in Lucifer's cage. 

Dean clenches his jaw. “Are you hunting?” 

She shakes her head, but her chin is up and her eyes defiant. 

“You don't want this life, lady.” 

She sets the pot down. “I saw your death certificate, Dean Winchester.” 

He tries to school his face, but she sees his surprise. “Yeah. I'm a damn good research librarian. Got a Master's from Kent State.” 

“We're going.” 

“I'm not a little girl anymore. I've changed.” 

“Time has a funny way of doing that to people,” Dean says, digging out his wallet and laying a twenty and a five down. 

“Or changing your perspective. I really believed in you, Dean. What you did...” She's stepping back, out of his way as he stands up into her space and there's so much he could say, but he can't. 

“You're safer if you don't believe,” he spits. It pisses him off even more to hear a mumbled, “Sorry,” behind him as Sam follows in his wake. 

“Dean,” she says. Her voice is low and soft. They haven't drawn any attention beyond a curious glance or two. 

Sam crowds his back when Dean stops, his hand flat on the cool glass of the door, and draws a long breath, his heart beating too hard in his chest. “Settle Inn. Eight tonight.” 

He feels the absence of Sam's gaze on the back of his neck as his brother checks to make sure she heard him, and then the brush of his shoulder as Sam falls into stride with him. Dean keeps his eyes on his car and tries not to remember Ben standing there beside him, shotgun casually hanging from his hand after target practice, and an easy grin on his face.

 


End file.
